


relying on your good intentions

by whiplash



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Canonical Child Abuse, Fic Graveyard, Gen, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 23:54:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7778560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiplash/pseuds/whiplash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You're just going to check in with him,” Ray says. “Then we're off.”</p><p>Yeah, right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	relying on your good intentions

“How many times do I have to tell you,” dad growls. “Look at me when I'm speaking to you!”

Leo lifts his head to stare at dad's left ear. The reward comes as a backhanded slap across the face. He grunts at the impact. Sways on his feet, but keeps standing. Keeps his eyes locked on dad's left ear. Keeps his hands where they are, clenched into fists by his side. 

“Fucking retard,” dad spits before pushing past Leo. 

The door slams shut behind him. Without dad in the house, every thing's quiet. Leo can hear the ticking of the clock. It takes nearly two minutes – one hundred and nine seconds, to be exact – for dad's car to roar to life. It takes another five minutes – three hundred seconds – until Leo finally moves. By then he's got the shakes, legs wobbly underneath him and his heart thudding hard against his ribs. 

He scurries up the stairs and into the bathroom, taking the time to turn the key in the lock. He's about to burst. His hands fumble with the buttons on his fly and he's suddenly convinced that he'll piss himself. Like a baby. The very thought freaks him out, making the need to piss even worse. 

“Shit,” he says and his voice's thin and squeaky. Like a baby's, he thinks again, throwing a furious glare at his own reflection. An ugly, thin face stares back at him. His skin has already begun to stretch tightly across the left cheekbone. And tomorrow's a school day. 

“Shit,” he repeats, just as the last button gives in and he sinks down on the seat. Dad would give him hell for sitting down to piss, of course, but then dad's not the one tasked with cleaning piss stains off the bathroom floor either. Leo might not be a genius, but he's not dumb enough to create more work for himself either. 

Now his entire body sags with relief as his bladder empties. Used to be, he remembers, that he'd piss himself when dad kicked him around. Not every time, of course. Only those times when he got it into his stupid head that dad wasn't ever going to stop. That the kicking or the slapping or the shaking would just go on forever. Yeah, he'd pissed himself then. 

He shakes his head, trying to lose the bad memories. Then stands up to shake away the last drops before doing up the buttons. His hands work better this time. His legs barely shake either as he makes his way to the sink. Leo turns the tap to cold, then lets the icy water run over his hands until they're numb. He imagines the cold spreading, up his arms and down his spine. Then he fills his hands with water and splashes his face too, wincing as his fingers brush against the beginning bruise. 

“Fucking shit,” he mutters, wiping his hands on his jeans in lack of a clean towel. Then he goes downstairs to make himself dinner. 

He eats the spaghetti rings cold from the can, fork in one hand and a yellow pencil in the other. Miss Buttons sent him home with extra worksheets again. Well, that, and a note for dad to sign. As if Leo can't forge dad's signature with his eyes closed and one hand tied behind his back. Wiping tomato sauce from the corner of his mouth he tries to remember how to do long division. 

His head hurts as he squints down at his homework. The letters keep dancing across the page. He scribbles something down, only to have to flip the pencil to rub at the paper with the crappy eraser on the back of it. 

Retard, he thinks. And he wonders if, maybe for once, dad's not wrong. 

That's when someone knocks on the door. 

xxx 

“This is crazy,” Ray whispers, shifting his weight from one foot to another while craning his neck like it's his first time on the wrong side of town. 

“You didn't have to come,” Mick points out before hammering his knuckles against the door again. The curtains in the living room flicker but he's not dumb enough to give away that he's noticed. He does spare a moment though to wish that Ray would just stop with his damn fidgeting. Even in this kind of neighborhood, some asshole's bound to react to such a ridiculous level of downright suspicious behavior. 

“Yes, I did,” Ray says, his voice all boy scout earnest. 

Mick sighs, then hammers at the door again. 

“You're just going to check in with him,” Ray says. “Then we're off.” 

Mick grunts, knowing that Ray, the ceaseless optimist, will interpret it as agreement. The truth is he has no plan. Just like he had no plan the last time he had jumped back in time to check in with his partner. Cold's the one who always had a plan. Mick's always relied on other things. 

“You just wanna make sure he's all right,” Ray continues, his voice bright. He sounds like he's halfway to convincing himself. And because Mick's a bit of a dick, and also because misery really fucking loves company, Mick shakes his head. 

“I already know that he's not all right.” 

“But-” Ray starts. 

And that's when the door opens.

**Author's Note:**

> The title for this story ought to be "shit I write instead of writing the next part of 'keep the home fires burning'".
> 
> Well, anyway, here we go. A graveyard fic. If I ever write a second part, it'll obviously feature Mick and Ray stealing baby!Snart away from dick!Snart. And Mick wanting to fatten him up and Ray trying to teach him long division. And baby!Snart having the worst fucking attitude during the day and then wetting the bed and waking up screaming at night. You know, nice and fluffy stuff like that.


End file.
